


Synchronous.

by lesnuffles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been so natural, so spontaneous, so instinctive that John couldn't even remember exactly how it had happened. It must have been the distance, he found himself thinking when he lost his grip and grabbed the sheet through his fingers, the bloody distance that had kept them apart for years. But then Sherlock came back. He was alive, and he was his, all his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**prologue**  
  
  
  
A cold breeze pierced through the opened window of the flat, slightly rustling the curtains. John closed his eyes, pressing his body against Sherlock's, feeling them fit perfectly together. The other man released a soft moan, and John glanced down at him. God, how long he’d been waiting for that moment; how much he’d wanted it, craved it.  
  
John bent toward Sherlock and kissed his chest, that pale skin, feeling the bones of his rib cage against his own lips. He moved up again, nestling in the hollow of Sherlock’s neck, and tilted his head up, his lips looking for the detective’s. They met, and Sherlock held the back of John’s head tightly with his slender fingers, pulling him closer while they kissed, longer, deeper. John felt his breath inside Sherlock’s mouth, and he passed his fingers through the detective’s dark hair, hanging on to the curls. John pressed his pelvis against the other man forcefully, feeling Sherlock's grip on him grow tighter as he exclaimed in pleasure.  
  
It had been so natural, so spontaneous, so instinctive that John couldn't even remember exactly how it had happened. It must have been the distance, he found himself thinking when he lost his grip and grabbed the sheet through his fingers, the bloody distance that had kept them apart for years. And absence, the absence that had seeped through his bones, soaking him with a heavy anguish that would seemingly never leave him again. But then Sherlock came back. John saw him. It _was_ him, and he was alive, and he was his; all his. He wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck, running them along his skin as Sherlock released a strange sound—was he smiling? Sherlock knew it; he always knew it all. He knew how much John had been missing him and how he just couldn’t help doing it. It seemed like both of them knew, like they had always known, as if that were the point they needed to reach. Their fingers weaved together in a steady grip as their lips searched for each other, again and again, and they just got lost along the way, wasting time, not knowing which direction to go.  
  
John felt it, that ardent and impulsive desire that had been burning in his chest throughout those years, and he knew it was right. Sherlock understood it, and neither of them found it strange. It was as though they were being moved by the same instinct, and all they had to do was to just stop asking questions; to just stop fighting it.  
  
It took a long time to get it, John thought, swallowing with a shiver, and at once Sherlock's hands glided lightly against his skin, trying to fix the problem, as if they knew they were the solution. John gripped Sherlock’s fingers with his, those long and slender scientist’s fingers that handled the strangest things, and pulled them close to his face. Now he could take them, now they belonged to him, like all of Sherlock, in the same way he had given all of himself to Sherlock, completely. With only the moonlight filtering through the window, John closed his eyes.  
  
Sherlock lifted his head slightly, gripping John’s body before slipping his thin arms around him and nestling against him. John understood then that Sherlock needed this at least as much as he did, and he pulled the detective close again, feeling Sherlock's chest rise and fall, his heart beating against John’s own—or it was just his imagination?  
  
No. Sherlock was there; he was real, and John would never let him go again. He wouldn’t let Sherlock leave, not now that John understood his existence was impossible without the detective. Not now that he saw himself ready to leave it all, the life he had desperately tried to build back up, piece by piece, just because he was back. Sherlock was alive again, and now he was there for John.  
  
Sherlock flopped down on the pillow with a moan, closing his eyes lightly. John silently slipped by his side, and then slowly ran his finger over Sherlock’s face, mentally outlining what the darkness did not allow him to see, but already knew so well. John let his finger run down to Sherlock’s chest, again feeling his bones, his tense skin. He relaxed his hand, opening his fingers up and lying there, feeling Sherlock’s chest rise and fall with each breath until they both fell asleep.  
  
When the screen of Sherlock's mobile lit up, vibrating, neither man noticed.


	2. chapter one

**chapter one.**

 

The man at the window turned his head toward the figure sitting on the other side of the room.  
Sunlight drifted inside behind him, making his silhouette almost indefinable.

“Mr. Holmes. I finally get to speak to you.”

“It's a pleasure, Mr. Bruhl,” replied the other man, sitting in an armchair next to a long wooden  
table, tilting his head slightly to get a better look. His lips stretched in an overly kind smile.

Bruhl turned at once, frowning sourly. “I wish it were a pleasure for me, too,” he replied when he  
composed himself, his voice trembling. “But you know...”

“My condolences.”

“You’ll definitely know why I’m here, too,” Bruhl sneered. He took a step toward Mycroft while  
speaking. “I want justice for what happened.”

“I would be happy to help you.” The British government’s face was a mask of impeccable courtesy,  
his smile still perfectly in place.

Bruhl slammed his hands on the table in a sudden outburst of rage. “You told me he was dead, Mr.  
Holmes!” he growled, his eyes wide and sparkling with repressed anger. “That the case was closed  
because he was found dead!”

Mycroft didn't bat an eye, even if his smile did seem to falter. “That was what we all believed at the  
time,” he replied slowly.

The other man burst into bitter laughter. “Are you telling me you didn’t know that _your own brother_  
was alive before the news came to my attention?”

At those words, the elder Holmes almost flew off the handle, but restrained himself well. Mr. Bruhl  
grinned triumphantly.

“I would like to inform you,” Mycroft said placidly, “that it has not been proven that Sherlock  
Holmes is responsible for your child’s kidnapping, Mr. Bruhl.”

Opening his eyes widely, Bruhl brushed back a bit of hair from his sweatcovered forehead, looking  
thunderstruck. “No?” he asked sarcastically.

“Innocent until proven otherwise,” Mycroft answered calmly, glancing down at the table that was  
shaking due to Bruhl’s rage.

“And who else could it have been?” he asked again, looking nearly as though he were an animal  
about to attack his prey.

Mycroft lifted his head to look at Bruhl, his face still holding the same polite expression. “We went  
back to another man. James Moriarty.”

Bruhl licked his lips and started to pace the room. “And where is this man now? Jail?” His face  
twitched, almost as though he had a nervous tic.

The elder Holmes waited a moment before answering. “Dead.”

The other man mockingly burst into laughter before shaking his head, almost hysterically. “Oh, no.  
Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. Very clever, very clever, but you already used this trick, didn't you?” His face  
twisted into a grin; half incredulous, half painful. In a sudden temper tantrum, he slammed again his  
hands on the table. “My son _died_ for this! I won't give up, I won't let you ignore it!”

The British government didn't move a muscle. “You should put more trust in the police, Mr. Bruhl.”  
“You gave up!” he spat. “You closed the case!”

“Not now that Sherlock Holmes has been found alive again,” Mycroft answered calmly.

His words seemed to shut Bruhl up, at least for a moment. Eventually the man opened his eyes.  
“You’ll investigate it? Again?” he asked with a hoarse voice that revealed his desperation.

Mycroft's smile became more polite than ever. “You must understand, Mr. Bruhl, that it would not  
be in our best interest to pursue this any further. The party presumed responsible is now dead, and  
dusting off old cases is not always…convenient.”

Bruhl’s eyes widened in shock. “It’s in my interest!”

“I suggest, then, that you organize a team yourself. Hire someone to find out what really happened.”  
The elder Holmes politely nodded his head toward Bruhl, who contorted his face in a grin before  
swallowing.

“Someone?”

Mycroft paused for a moment before speaking to ensure his words achieved the desired effect. “You  
once considered Sherlock Holmes the only detective able to solve your child's kidnapping. Why  
don't you call him back?”

Mr. Bruhl looked at the other man as if he were insane. “He’s one of the suspects!” he said, his  
voice trembling with rage. “What would he investigate, his own innocence?”

“That wasn't the problem that brought you here, though, was it?” Mycroft asked, still smiling.

“What do you mean?” Bruhl whispered, clenching his fists and lifting his head toward the other  
man.

The other man tilted his head. “I heard your daughter isn't doing well.”

Bruhl’s eyes opened wide in fear. He collapsed into the chair opposite Mycroft, his forehead bathed  
in sweat. For a while, he was unable to say a word, and when he did speak, his voice was feeble and  
trembling. “How do you know?”

The British government reclined back in his seat, joining his hands. Triumph crossed his face for  
one brief moment. “Either Sherlock Holmes is the kidnapper or your private detective. He is the  
only one who can give you the answer.” Mycroft stopped himself for a moment, bending over the  
other man slightly. “Contact him, Mr. Bruhl.”

Bruhl blinked and swallowed nervously.

 

*

  
John opened his eyes with difficulty, bothered by the light from the window. He rubbed his eyes  
with the back of his hand. Bits and pieces of the previous night kept popping into his mind and  
mingled with the fragments of the dream that had not still completely slipped out of his thoughts.  
He found himself wondering what was real and what he had imagined.

He turned to the left side on the bed, noticing that the place next to him was empty. He felt a stab in  
his gut. Then he realized the messy and untidy sheets were real, the pungent scent on them was real,  
and the noise of the shower in the bathroom was real, too. They were all there to tell him that he,  
John Watson, wasn't alone. Not anymore.

John stood up and stretched before lazily heading to the kitchen, walking slowly, still fighting off  
the last remnants of sleep. He opened the curtains, squinting against the light until the whole room  
came into focus. Taking a small kettle, he filled it with enough water to make tea for two, and he  
turned on the stove and set it down before finally plopping into his armchair, waiting for it to boil.  
He leafed through the previous day’s newspaper before suddenly stopping.

He studied the penciled circle surrounding important facts from crimerelated articles, examining the  
slanted scrawl that filled the sides of each page. Some corrected the grammar of the journalist in  
question, others were simply notes. John snorted in amusement. _Who the hell would take notes on_  
a newspaper article?

The shower suddenly stopped, and the answer to his question entered the room moments later with  
a yawn, announced by the soft sound of fabric dragging across the floor. John turned his head to  
look at Sherlock, and he couldn't avoid the little smile creeping across his lips.

“Good morning.”

Sherlock tilted his head to look at John, but he just yawned again, wrapped up in his sheet. He  
headed to the kitchen, looking at the kettle. John watched him, studying his moves.

“Tea will be ready in a—”

“Now.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his hand on his face before dropping a teabag in his cup,  
pouring the water, and replacing the kettle on the stove. He walked back to the opposite side of the  
sitting room, clutching his sheet and sipping at his tea as he focused his eyes on the wall facing him.

John smiled. Sherlock was never in a good mood when he had just woken up. Although he still  
wondered what the hell was wrong with him that morning, John had to admit that they had made  
some improvements. He’d never forget the morning after the first night they spent together:  
Sherlock had entered the room, completely naked, and seemed surprised by John’s stunned  
expression.

“Don’t be so shocked,” Sherlock had chuckled. “You’ve already seen me without clothes, John.”  
John’s following speech about common decency—“You find me indecent, then?”—and his fear of  
someone walking in—“Come on, who could walk in our flat at half past seven in the morning?”—  
came to naught. Having Sherlock wandering around the flat wearing a sheet as a cape was already a  
step forward in John’s mind. Having him wandering around the flat _at all_ was a step forward.  
Having him. Again.

John stopped his thoughts from entering the forbidden zone, the one he forced himself to avoid.  
Luckily, the whistle of the water boiling in the kettle, nearly bubbling out, made him stand and run  
to save it. When he found himself with a burning cup of tea in his hands, he went back to his  
armchair.

“I told you it was ready.”

John decided not to comment. He took a sip of tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. Picking  
up the newspaper again, he flipped through it slowly. He was almost absorbed in a piece about  
foreign policy when the same voice interrupted his concentration.

“Did you find something interesting?”

John turned toward Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch comfortably.

“You read this newspaper yesterday, Sherlock, and so did I.” He raised an eyebrow.

The detective lifted up his right sock before answering. “Yes, but not with my notes.”

John opened the paper, showing it to Sherlock from the armchair. He read one of the annotations  
aloud: “‘The woman who wrote this piece—probably a single mother with a son—used an old  
laptop for the first draft. Some of the keys were broken, explaining the typographical errors;  
however, that does not justify the syntactical ones, nor does it excuse the article’s general lack of  
coherence. Thus, she must have a secret relationship, most likely with the editor.’” John looked at  
the detective. “Was that really necessary?”

Sherlock curved his lips into a smile, pleased. John forced himself not to stare at the perfect shape  
of his mouth—or to think about what he’d love to do with it.

“Were you trying to impress me?” John asked instead, his tone only slightly sarcastic.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “I don’t need to.” He stood, leaving the room with his shirt  
halfway buttoned, making the doctor entirely sure he had been right. A mobile on the table in front  
of John lit up and vibrated before the ringtone began playing.

“Sherlock!” he called, picking it up. The detective didn’t seem to have heard him at all, and John  
began to wonder if he should just answer it himself when the tone ended and a new text from  
Lestrade appeared on the screen.

_Scotland Yard. Come at soon as possible._

An unpleasant feeling shifted in John's stomach. He forced himself to keep calm, quickly walking  
into the bedroom, the door wide open. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, fully dressed,  
already wearing his long coat. He nodded toward the mobile in John’s hand.

“Lestrade?” he asked, tying his scarf around his neck.

John nodded. “Why didn't you answer?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “There are three missed calls  
just from this morning.”

“Because I already know what he wants, and I don't like waking up in a rush,” Sherlock answered  
quietly. He crossed the room, taking the mobile from John’s hand and slipping it into his pocket.

“And what does he want?” John asked again, standing on the doorstep, frowning.

Sherlock was just one step from the door when he turned back to John. He paused for a moment  
before speaking, as if he were carefully choosing the right words. “Remember what he was doing  
the last day he was here, before I...?” He raised his eyebrows slightly, suggesting the rest of the  
sentence.

The heaviness in John's stomach seemed to become leaden. He swallowed. “I find it extremely hard  
to forget the details of that day, Sherlock,” he replied sharply.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He just frowned, inviting John to continue.

John held a breath and forced himself to give Sherlock the answer he wanted. “He was arresting  
you... he was arresting us, right?”

Sherlock didn’t nod, but he didn’t contradict John, either. He just glanced at him with a strangely  
piercing look. “It took him a while to remember that he didn’t finish it.” He opened the door and  
disappeared, but a moment later he peeped out his head from the door, looking down on John and  
adding, “Maybe you should get dressed. Going to Scotland Yard in pajamas would be _indecent_.”


	3. chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Now, may I know who complained  
> about my return?”
> 
> The inspector opened his mouth, without speaking. “How...?” he started, puzzled, but then he  
> seemed to recompose himself quite quickly. “Three years, and I almost forgot how annoying is to  
> have my speeches foreseen.”

**chapter two.**

 

The cab was crossing London streets, under the irregular and hasty driver of the man at the wheel,  
and John felt annoyingly tossing around while they moved forward. He turned to look at Sherlock,  
but he was still, his gaze fixed on the window. John swallowed the lump he felt in his throat, trying  
to be more silence as I could. He didn't want Sherlock to grasp the thousands of questions that were  
boiling in his mind and he didn't intended to do, for no reason. Like the first time, on the first cab  
-God, how did he even still remember that?- when Sherlock had perceived his need to speak out  
under the silence, and he didn't want to talk about _now_ , he didn't want to discuss it. Or maybe he  
did? He stubbornly turned his head towards his window, trying to think about something else, but  
Sherlock's voice brusquely brought him back.

“Are you alright, John?”

Sherlock didn't even move; he just had a quick look at him, without batting an eyelid, his blue iris  
still busy in following and catching the traffic outside.

John straightened on the seat, he opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, hesitating, and finally  
deciding to change the topic for something painless would have been a nice solution.

“It's your... first time, isn't it?” he asked, cleaning his throat.

Sherlock frowned at once, turning his head to him, his mouth half opened in surprise. “What are you....?”

“I didn't mean... Scotland Yard!” John hurried to correct himself. “It's the first time you go there,  
isn't it? Since...” He coughed again, feeling his voice missing. “Since you came back.”

“Oh.” Sherlock recompose his perfectly impassive expression, joining his hands under the chin and  
going back to look at the window. “Yes.” He stayed silence for a moment, then he look again at  
him, his forehead lightly frowning. “Should it be a problem?”

John stopped for a second, looking that naive face, like a children who still didn't really understand  
how things worked in the real world. That if you fake you death for three years people just does not  
expect you to go back into business that soon. But that in his case, it reallt didn't matter, as long as  
thing went back as they were, going on as nothing had happened.

“No, not at all,” he answered at the end, shaking his head, and Sherlock relaxed his frown, his  
finger still laid on his pale lips, drowning again in his thoughts.

The cab left them right in front of the entrance of the police station. John waited a moment before  
going in, but Sherlock was walking in big strides towards the door, his hands slipped inside the  
pockets of the opened coat, with no hesitation, and John could do nothing but following him.

As they entered, there were a couple of curious gazes, and someone started whispering excitedly,  
but Sherlock kept walking quickly through all those people who were pointing at him like he really  
didn't care, and John sped up his pace to reach him. He was already at his side, when two figures  
standing in front of the door made them slow down.

Sherlock lightly hanged his head in greeting. “Sergeant Donovan, Anderson...” he coldly said, his  
eyes fixed on the door, behind which there must be Lestrade.

The woman looked at him over her crossed arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Our _Dead Man Walking_ again on the road” she commented at the end, looking at him with his lips  
tighten. Despite her clearly sarcastic tone, there were no smiles or amused grins on her face.

“It's a movie,” John whispered, lifting his eyes towards the detective.

“I knew it,” Sherlock grumbled in return, before going back looking at her. “I must see Lestrade,”  
he added, in a way that evidently wanted to meant the end of the conversation

Donovan looked at him for a moment, before reaching out her hand to open the door.

“He's here,” she curtly commented, letting him pass. John was about to follow him, but the woman  
held him with an hand. He frowned, looking at her.

“I don't understand, doctor Watson” she said, with a tone that foretold a controversy incoming, and  
not one John particularly felt like debating.

“You don't understand, what's that you don't understand?” he repeated, turning towards the sergeant,  
his hands crossed behind his back. Anderson, leaned against the wall, snorted.

“Shouldn't you be mad to death with him?” Donovan replied, frowning even more her dark  
eyebrows. “All those years you thought he was dead, now he came back and you follow him like  
nothing happened?”

John felt like something got stuck n his throat, but he swallowed, forcing himself to keep straightfaced.  
“That's exactly the point,” he commented, frosty. “That's what happened. _Nothing_.”

He coldly smiled, then he overstepped her to cross the door and enter in the office, immediately  
followed by the two of them. Even before seeing Lestrade, he heard his voice welcoming him.

“...I thought something bad happened to you, _again_ ” he was complaining, addressing to Sherlock,  
who was already sat in a chair in front of the desk. Lestrade lifted his head when he heard him  
coming. “Oh, good morning, John.”

“Hi,” he briefly replied, sitting next to Sherlock, feeling vaguely awkward. That office carried on it  
too many unpleasant memories, and he felt Lestrade's eyes on him, the same eyes that in all those  
years get into the habit of observing him in a even too much compassionate look. But it was over,  
now. He was fine. Why was everybody so slow in understanding it?

Lestrade cleared his throat, and went back looking at Sherlock. “...You could have answered the  
phone, anyway, yesterday,” he concluded. There was something quite paternalistic in the way he  
was speaking now, and John was sure that the detective would have noticed.

“It was the middle of night, inspector. I had something better to do.” Sherlock bended his lips in a  
smile and John coughed, forced himself to focus all his attention to the right corner of the desk.

“I tried again this morning” Lestrade protested.

“And here I came.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Now, may I know who complained  
about my return?”

The inspector opened his mouth, without speaking. “How...?” he started, puzzled, but then he  
seemed to recompose himself quite quickly. “Three years, and I almost forgot how annoying is to  
have my speeches foreseen.”

John noticed the right corner of Sherlock's mouth smirking in pleasure. _Those lips_. Dammit.

“Rufus Bruhl” Lestrade went on, handing them a booklet. Sherlock took it with his pale fingers,  
rapidly opening it. “Does this remember something to you?”

A second was enough. Sherlock closed again the file, straightening on his chair. “Our Hansel and  
Gretel's father,” he slowly answered, raising a dark eyebrow. “I presume you dismissed the case  
after my gone. He finds out that the supposed kidnapper and potential killer of his children to be  
still alive, he surely can't be pleased, but why...” he slowed down, frowning. “Hammering away like  
that?”

“It's his younger son, Max” Lestrade replied, with a sigh. “He died a couple of weeks ago.”

Sherlock snorted in exasperation. “Am I accused of that, too, _inspector_?”

“I don't think so, since he committed suicide” Lestrade said. “As it turns out, he jumped from the  
roof of their house in Washington.”

Sherlock's eyelid, John noticed, had a sort of involuntary shudder. He swallowed. There was  
something incredibly wrong, in all that matter, and whatever it was, he didn't like it at all.

Anderson's harsh voice interrupted his thoughts. “What it's becoming, a fashion?” he acidly  
commented.

“Maybe, are you thinking of joining us?” Sherlock replied lightly lifting his eyes towards him, with  
a little smile on his lips.

Anderson opened his mouth but did not answer; John glanced at Sherlock, feeling a kind of  
nervousness in him. Or was he just imagining it? He preferred not to investigate further, and he  
addressed to Lestrade instead.

“And how does this... involve Sherlock, how... could?” he said, puckered. “Max died in America,  
years after the whole affair, why?”

Lestrade seemed to take a breath before answering. “It seems that Max and his sister never  
recovered from the kidnapping” he started to explain. “The therapist who takes care of them thinks  
the shock was too strong, and the mercury they assumed...”

“Therapist?” John repeated, dazed.

“They had several problems, coming back to America, as it seems” Lestrade replied. “Extreme  
suggestibility, hallucinations, hysterical attacks. They needed to be followed by specialists.”

“It's quite a thin line to accuse a man,” Sherlock observed, raising his eyebrows, his fingers crossed  
in front of his face.

“I didn't tell you everything, in facts” Lestrade replied, and John could see -or was he wrong?- a  
trace of triumph in the inspector's look, having this last, touch of mystery in his story. “Rufus Bruhl  
didn't come from America to accuse you.”

Sherlock's blue iris opened wide in surprise, but he didn't move at all.

“No?” he just whispered, slowly.

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “Don't ask me how he convinced himself doing such a  
thing, but he wants you to investigate for him.”

Sherlock snorted, amused. “On his son's suicide?” he asked, ironically.

“On the kidnapper!” Lestrade replied, standing up. “On what he did to his children, on his  
daughter's illness, and most of all, on why we were all so convinced it was you!”

John cleared his throat. Something extremely unpleasant seemed to be going down in his stomach.

“There is nothing to investigate on, inspector!” Sherlock stood up in his turn, his hands on the desk.  
“Moriarty organized the kidnapping, he filled them with mercury and everything mister Bruhl  
should do is to assume a better analyst and lock the windows of the attic before putting his daughter  
to sleep. Now, excuse me...”

He was about to leave, but John leaped in his feet, holding him back.

“Sherlock, stop, think about it, please” he said, in a low voice. “That could be a chance to make  
people know the truth about what happened...”

“I am not investigating on my innocence, John!” he harshly replied.

“You don't have to investigate on your innocence, but on the guilty” Lestrade replied, and Sherlock  
quickly turned towards him. “Moriarty was behind this, alright, we know it, but he had men, men  
following his orders, men who physically took these children and brought them in that place, and if  
we get to know who they were, to catch them...”

“This is not going to cure Rufus' daughter” Sherlock commented, embittered.

“Then find out what will” Lestrade replied, lowing his voice, in a quite graver, serious tone.

Sherlock observed him for a moment, in silence. “Not my area” he replied.

“Maybe it's the kidnapper's.” Lestrade replied. “Find him, Sherlock.”

“Why should I?” he asked again, raising his eyebrows.

“Because if you get to do it, we will finally find a way to exonerate you...” Lestrade started, but  
Sherlock snorted, annoyed. “Listen, we know it, alright? We know it wasn't you, but legally, you are  
still one of the suspected.”

Sherlock bit the inner of his cheek, and moved his look around the room, until crossing John's.

“Alright,” he said at the end, in a whisper, and the doctor was finally able to sigh with relief, closing  
his eyes for a moment.

“For God's sake, you finally starting to be reasonable,” Lestrade said, lifting his eyes.

Sherlock interrupted him before he add a chance to add something more. “I will need to talk to  
Rufus, and to the girl,” he started, taking his coat from the back of his chair and wearing it up.

“Aren't they in America?” John asked, confused

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock was quicker and foreran him. “He came in  
England to personally arrange the question, those are not matters to be discussed by phone, the  
feeble-minded daughter of an ambassador is a top secret issue, phones get tapped,” he said, tying  
his scarf around his neck. “And with his son's suicide that close, would you leave your daughter  
alone in America with the nanny? That wouldn't be a clever move, and that mad already proved  
himself a very bad father... No, they are both here, send me their address, Lestrade, I'll go visiting  
him. Have a nice day.”

He went out with a flourish and John, still standing up in the middle of the room, could do nothing  
but following him, with a mixture admiration and bitterness tying in his throat, helping himself  
from speaking.


	4. chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who are you?” she asked, her voice strangely firm.
> 
> John lifted both his hands in surrender. “My name’s John. I’m a doctor. I’m not going to hurt you.”
> 
> The girl stood up. “Of course you won’t,” she replied calmly. “I know doctors, me. I’ve seen a lot of  
> them. I know what they do.”

**chapter three**

 

Rufus Bruhl’s temporary residence was located right outside London, in the countryside. Although  
the house was old-fashioned, it still left a good impression of the rich owners on passersby. It was  
already late afternoon when the white building appeared on the horizon, visible far before they  
reached it. Sherlock parked the black car on the deserted road, and he and John hopped out, walking  
the last stretch of the path.

“He doesn’t want to draw any attention,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes to observe the  
residence. “Probably doesn’t plan to stay here for a long time, and an American ambassador’s visit  
to London would spark media interest at once. He’s acting with extreme discretion—that must be  
why he wants to consult a private detective again.”

John glanced at Sherlock, looking for a sign of annoyance, excitement, or anything different from  
the detached calm shown on his face. Nothing. Sherlock merely pointed toward the entrance of the  
house as they neared. “Just one car parked outside. Whoever works in the house—they have  
someone who takes care of the daughter, too. Claudie’s therapist must have come with them from  
America. No one enters or exits to avoid any information leaks.

“But why are they letting us in?” John asked, frowning a bit. “And why call the police?”

“Yes, why?” Sherlock repeated, lost in his thoughts. “The death of his son made Bruhl change his  
course of action; he wants the affair solved quickly. He would prefer to risk a leak than make the  
girl’s situation worse. A wise move, but not one a politician would make. Must be desperate.”

“His son is _dead_ ,” John pointed out, glancing at Sherlock with eyebrows raised.

Sherlock nodded, almost pleased. “Yes, that seems to be a good reason. Look, the windows of the  
top floor are open, but the lights are turned on. That is where they keep Claudie—the mad girl in the  
attic. A classic.” He walked up to the door and knocked three times, then quickly turned toward  
John as if suddenly remembering something.

“Oh, you’re the one who must interrogate her, of course,” he added thoughtlessly.

“Me?”

“Well, she _does_ still believe I am the kidnapper, remember?” Sherlock smiled at John’s confused  
expression.

The door suddenly opened to reveal a woman. Her olive skin was marked with age, and she moved  
a lock of her black hair from her face, stepping aside so the men could enter.

“Mr. Holmes, I assume,” she said, glancing at him, and then stopping to look at John.  
“And you are…?”

“Dr. Watson,” Sherlock replied before John had a chance to speak. “He’s with me.”

 _He’s with me_.

Something inside John’s stomach seemed to twist in a not unpleasant way. _He’s with me._

“Mr. Bruhl is waiting for you in the parlor,” the woman continued, pointing them toward a room at  
the end of the hallway.

Sherlock slowly walked down the hall, not without noticing the old furniture or the wallpaper  
smeared with bleach—the little white spots behind the sideboard left no doubts that it had been  
cleaned recently. He let his fingers slip over the silk flowers in a silver vase positioned in front of a  
rather large mirror before reaching for the door. He leaned a hand on the knob before stopping  
himself and pointing John to the staircase on their right.

“Go talk with the girl,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll stay with the father.”

John hesitated for a moment, puzzled. “How? Shouldn’t we…ask for permission, or…?”

“He called us to investigate, and that’s what we’ll do,” Sherlock replied simply. “Go.”

Looking around briefly, John sighed, exasperated, and started to walked up the wooden steps, which  
creaked one by one under his weight. He heard Sherlock open the door almost instantly, and he  
turned back to him, but all he saw was the back of the detective’s coat disappearing through the  
doorway.

John continued up the staircase, snapping back into his mission. He reached the first floor and  
looked down the hall at the rooms, which seemed to be empty for the most part. He paused,  
uncertain of how to proceed. What if Claudie were in one of them?

The attic. Sherlock talked about the attic. That was, obviously, quite remarkable, considering that it  
was the first time either of them had been inside the house, but honestly, how many times had that  
hampered the detective’s deductions? John kept climbing the stairs until he reached what could be  
none other than the top floor.

The ceiling was lower, and instead of a hallway, there was only one door in front of John.

Swallowing, he slowly opened it. He immediately heard a gasp as he entered. The room was  
completely empty save for a little table in the middle covered with closed cardboard boxes and a  
wardrobe. Neither caught John’s attention; instead, he was focused on a small figure crouched in the  
opposite corner of the room.

“Claudie?” he called hesitatingly.

The figure seemed to shake a little, but eventually lifted her head and tilted it slightly to get a better  
look at him, her brown eyes now open.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice strangely firm.

John lifted both his hands in surrender. “My name’s John. I’m a doctor. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The girl stood up. “Of course you won’t,” she replied calmly. “I know doctors, me. I’ve seen a lot of  
them. I know what they do.”

“Yes, well, that’s good.” John stopped himself, not entirely sure what to say. He didn’t have the  
slightest idea what Sherlock wanted him to investigate in the first place.

Loud laughter interrupted his thoughts. Claudie was chuckling heartily, her eyes sparkling. John  
frowned, his hands folded behind his back. “What’s that? What did I do?”

“You’re _short_ ,” she said in a singsong voice with a snigger.

John scowled with a stretched smile. “Yes, and?”

“And your hair is the color of straw,” Claudie replied quietly. “Why did you come here, Dr. John?”

He took a few steps toward her, opening his mouth as if to speak. “I…am a doctor, like I said, and  
I’ve come here to see how you’re doing. You’re well, right?” he asked, trying to sound convincing.  
The smile slipped from the girl’s face, who opened her eyes widely, terrified. John looked around at  
once, worried, but nothing had changed.

“They left the window open!” Claude whispered, staring above John’s head. He turned and found  
himself looking at the same glass shutters Sherlock had pointed out earlier.

“Okay, so the window’s open. Why does that matter?” he asked, confused.

“Never leave the window open! Never!” she cried before putting her hands to her mouth, trying to  
keep quiet. After a moment, she let her hands slip away and whispered, “Would you close it for me,  
Dr. John?”

He nodded, still puzzled. “Yes. Yeah, sure,” he muttered. He glanced outside, expecting something  
incredibly frightening in the yard, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He reached up and closed  
the window and shutters, locking them for good measure.

Claudie sighed in relief. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, her voice cheerful again.

“Why do windows scare you, Claudie?” John asked, taking a few steps toward her and crouching  
down to her level.

“I’m not afraid of windows,” she corrected him, seemingly perplexed by his foolishness.

“Are you afraid of something that might come in?” he asked again, lowering his voice with a frown.

To John’s surprise, the girl laughed again. “We’re in the attic!” she exclaimed. Her voice, however,  
seemed stronger and more mechanical, as if she had learned the phrase by heart. “ _Nothing_ can come  
in here.”

“Right,” John agreed, nodding. “Then what’s wrong with the open window?”

Claudie looked around quickly before bring her face to John’s, her lips only centimeters from John’s  
ear. “It’s not what might come up,” she whispered. “It’s what might come _down_.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The girl suddenly moved away from John with an indignant expression. “They didn’t tell you,” she  
said with a frown.

“Tell me what?” John asked, beginning to get tired of having to ask the girl for an explanation. It  
made him feel dull. Why couldn’t Sherlock just come up with him? The detective knew that he  
wasn’t cut out for these sorts of things—did he send him up because he thought it would be funny?  
Or did Sherlock just overestimate him? The thought was frustrating.

“My brother,” Claudie muttered slowly. “They didn’t tell you, Dr. John?”

“Oh. Right, sure,” he said, finally understanding. “I am…very sorry, Claudie.”

She seemed surprised by his reaction. “I think he’ll come back,” she whispered vaguely, drifting her  
gaze toward the door.

“Come back?” John repeated, feeling for the umpteenth time that he had forgotten something. “But  
didn’t he...” He cleared his throat. “He—“

“Fell?” the girl finished for him. “From a roof? Yes, he jumped.”

John pressed his lips into a line, trying to keep himself detached and professional. He clenched his  
right fist, his nails digging into his palm. “Then how could he come back?” he asked slowly. The words  
stumbled on his tongue, and he was unable to force them out. “He must be…” _Oh, come on, John._ “Dead.”

This time, Claudie paused before answering. She stayed still, staring at John’s face for a long  
moment, her eyes open wide. “He came back,” she said slowly under her breath.

“We were scared, me and my brother, because we thought he came back to take us. The doctor said  
it was all in our heads, but Max and me saw him, and he was right there, in front of us, every time it  
got dark…”

Her talking speed increased. “Dad said he wasn’t real. That the man was going to prison. But we  
knew he wanted to take us, and he came, every night, and looked at us because he wanted to take us  
and we couldn’t sleep because he saw us and touched us and laughed--”

Claudie stopped, swallowing. Her eyes were dilated, John noticed, but she wasn’t shaking, nor had  
she indicated she was scared. The girl looked up at John, grinning. He felt something unpleasant  
stick in his throat.

“Then, one day Dad told us, ‘He’s dead! You can stop worrying; Sherlock Holmes, the man who  
took you, is dead! There is nothing to be afraid of anymore because he’s gone! Gone, gone  
forever!’”

“Claudie,” John started. The girl burst into laughter.

“Fallen from a building, Dad said, right from the roof, like a stuffed puppet! One minute he was up  
there, and then— _smack_! He jumped, and he died, died!”

“Claudie…”

“Max and me were happy because he wasn’t going to come anymore, and then we knew the  
nightmares were just nightmares, because Sherlock Holmes was dead, wasn’t he? And he would  
never, never come back. We got rid of him, Dad said.”

John’s left hand started to shake imperceptibly. “Claudie,” he repeated.

“ _They lied_!” the girl shrieked, scared again. “Because he came back, and he’s alive, and he’s going  
to take us because he couldn’t kill us, and he wants to try again because Sherlock Holmes is bad,  
bad, bad…” Claudie shivered, swaying back and forth, her eyes fixed on the locked window.

John bit the inside of his cheek. He cleared his throat, his nails still pressed into his palm, and let his  
left hand slip into his pocket. He blinked his eyes for a few moments before his voice returned.

“Claudie, listen,” he started, sounding more uncertain than he had expected. “You have to believe  
me, all right? Sherlock Holmes is _not at all_ the way you think. He wasn’t the one who kidnapped  
you; he saved you, and he’s not bad because he was…”

 _Professional and detached_ , John reminded himself. But God, how could he be? After all, she was  
only just a little girl… “He’s a very good person, really. He’s good, and you should be happy he  
isn’t dead, because he wants to help you.”

He swallowed. Claudie lifted her head, tilting it to the side, resting a hand on her cheek. She  
definitely looked like a child now, perhaps waiting for a bedtime story.

“And how do you know that?” she whispered, hanging on to John’s every word.

“I know because Sherlock Holmes—” he hesitated before starting again, clearing his throat,  
thankful there wasn’t anyone else in the room. “Because Sherlock Holmes is my friend. My best  
friend.”

Claudie batted her eyelashes, looking away. John wondered if she had even paid any attention to  
him before shaking his head and standing up. The conversation had lasted long enough.

“And he wasn’t the one who hurt you,” he added, glancing back at her. He didn’t move for a while  
before turning back and walking out of the attic, his steps echoing on the wooden floor while  
Claudie closed her eyes, her lips rounding into a small smile.


	5. chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gently resting the bow on the strings perfectly perpendicularly, Sherlock let it slide downward, producing one long, deep note to interrupt their conversation. He waited for a moment before speaking. “I believe the situation will become less confusing as soon as we discover if Claudie’s nightmares are real.”

**chapter four**

 

 

The door to the living room opened just as John reached for it. Sherlock walked out quickly,  
followed by a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a square jaw, apparently of Nordic  
descent. He looked vaguely perplexed when he saw John. Sherlock glanced from one man to the  
other before starting.

“John, this is Mr. Bruhl, Claudie’s father. Mr. Bruhl, Dr. John Watson, my colleague and friend.”

Before John had processed the sentence, Bruhl was already shaking his hand with a tight grip.

“Pleased to meet you,” Bruhl mumbled. His eyes were red and swollen, and he licked his lips.  
There was something extraordinarily strange in a man of such size seeming so lost and confused.

“My pleasure,” John replied mechanically, glancing at Sherlock impatiently, wanting to tell him  
about his talk with the girl. The detective would certainly make sense of the whole thing. Sherlock  
seemed to understand and nodded almost imperceptibly before turning back to Bruhl.

“I believe my job here is done for the day. Thank you for allowing us here. I will let you know.”

Sherlock’s tone was that of cold politeness; conversing with a man who had accused him of  
kidnapping and attempted murder years before was obviously not something he favored. Bruhl, on  
the other hand, didn’t seem to mind. He nodded frantically, his eyes darting between the detectives.

“Shall we go, John?” Sherlock asked, his contempt more detectable. “Have a nice day, Mr. Bruhl.”  
John felt Bruhl’s eyes on him as he followed Sherlock all the way to the front door and only seemed  
to shake it off once they were both in the car again, pulling back out onto the uneven road. There  
was a long, silent pause, causing John to wonder what the hell Sherlock could be thinking about—  
after all, he was the one with the important information.

“You want me to…tell you about Claudie?” he asked hesitantly, wanting to break the silence. He  
supposed he could have been misfiring, but it was better not to think about how long it had been  
since their last case together.

“What?” Sherlock asked absent-mindedly, turning toward John with his eyebrows furrowed. “Oh,  
no, no. I already know about all of it. I watched your discussion from Bruhl’s CCTV feed in the  
living room.”

John’s mouth fell open, puzzled and not quite sure what to say. “Cameras?”

Sherlock glanced at him with his trademark ‘you-clearly-just-missed-something-obvious’ look.  
“Yes, cameras. After his son jumped from the roof, it would be silly of him to let his daughter  
unguarded with an open window, wouldn’t it? Bruhl kept eyes on her twenty-four hours a day, even  
if he couldn’t physically watch her. Doesn’t care for company, I suppose.”

“But he’s her father,” John replied, dazed.

“Yes, but we _are_ speaking about Mr. Bruhl.”

There was another brief silence in which John explored the implications linked to the hidden  
cameras. He felt an unwelcome warmth around his neck. “So you…followed the whole  
conversation?” he asked, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“All of it, yes,” Sherlock replied distractedly. A moment later, he suddenly remember something  
and turned toward John. “Oh, I should mention I really admired your final performance. ‘He is my  
friend,’ ‘a very good person,’ that whole emotional bit. Very good idea; perhaps next time I will be  
able to talk with her myself.”

John frowned. “It wasn’t a…performance, Sherlock,” he explained slowly. “I actually…”

“Oh.” Sherlock fell silent for a moment, then focused back on the road in front of them. “More  
realistic. Good. Better chance you convinced her.”

Uncertain of whether to reply, John struggled for an answer, but decided to drop it. Changing the  
subject would be easier. “So?” he asked, looking at Sherlock expectantly. “What did you find?”

The detective waited a few seconds before answering, and John could almost see his brain ordering  
the pieces of the conversational puzzle together. “Nothing important,” he finally answered,  
somehow giving away that he already discovered anything of importance. “Let’s start from the  
beginning. You enter the room; Claudie is in the corner, scared. You take a step forward, and she  
begins to laugh. Why?”

“Does it _really_ matter?”

“Of course it does. She was terrified when she heard the door open, then she seemed rather amused.  
Don’t you understand?” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply before moving on. “It’s believed that a  
child’s laughter is caused by the relief when a dangerous situation is avoided. Claudie fears her  
kidnapper, but when you walked into the light of the open window, it was clear to her you weren’t  
him, and she laughed. What does that tell us?”

“She knows I didn’t kidnap her?” John attempted, frowning.

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded. “And seeing as she’s not certain about the real culprit’s appearance,  
you must appear drastically different. Your height, your hair color—we know for certain he was a  
tall man, presumably with dark hair. That, of course, is not a big discovery, seeing as how she  
mistook me for him, but it is still good that we can confirm it.”

“…Right.”

“Now, the window.” Sherlock took advantage of the red stoplight and turned toward John, his hands  
leaving the wheel to emphasize his words. “She was looking at it before you walked in, and Bruhl  
said she is obsessed with it. It’s linked to an image of danger, but when you asked her to be more  
specific about it, she started to contradict herself.”

“Schizophrenia?” John asked amusedly with a half-smile, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Bruhl told me her therapist is trying to convince her that there’s nothing to be afraid of.  
Unfortunately, she is doing it incorrectly.” He placed his hands back on the steering wheel to drive  
again.

“That is?”

“She believes that if Claudie sees that nothing bad will happen, she will realize the meaninglessness  
of her fear. She leaves the window open to prove nothing will hurt her.”

John scoffed. “That’s a ridiculous idea.” He thought about how frightened Claudie looked when he  
walked in. He corrected himself; ‘heartless’ was probably a more accurate word.

Sherlock nodded distractedly. “And it’s counter-productive. The girl thinks the open window is  
punishment for talking about her fears, and she doesn’t feel free to talk about them anymore. This is  
why she is confused about whether to lie to you or take advantage of your help.”

“They should fire her.” It was the only answer John could come up with. Sherlock smiled slightly  
before continuing his speech.

“From there, things begin to get more complicated. Her brother’s death? That emotional heartfelt  
speech about lies? A very clever move on her part.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Wasn’t she just…angry and confused?”

“Oh, she got the better of you, I see.” He tilted his head to the side, a condescending smile playing  
across his lips. “You don’t really believe she thinks her brother will come back from the dead, do  
you? She’s nearly eleven; she isn’t stupid.”

“Then why did she—“

“To gauge your reaction, obviously. I suppose that after all her father’s lies, she had learned how to  
get a sincere reaction from others. And all this brings us to the main question.”

“Really?”

Before John could get an answer, Sherlock parked the car in front of the flat and ran off, his coat  
trailing behind him. John met him on the doorstep while Sherlock unlocked the door. He turned to  
John before continuing. “Why didn’t her brother’s death upset her? Bruhl told me she wasn’t  
shocked in the least. His opinion is that she is too mentally damaged to realize what it meant, but  
that obviously isn’t the case.” He stood silent for a moment. “Claudie knew it was going to happen,  
and she knew why Max was killed. We just have to find out how to make her tell us.”

Sherlock opened the door, taking the steps two at a time and disappearing into the flat, leaving John  
behind, still rather confused. All of a sudden, he realized there was something that didn’t fit.

“Sherlock!”

He went up the stairs hurriedly, opening the door wide and finding his flatmate already bending  
over his violin case and testing the strings of his instrument. Sherlock turned toward him  
questioningly.

John took a moment before speaking. “Did you say he was killed?” he asked slowly.

Sherlock leaned the violin on his shoulder with a piercing gaze. “Bruhl thinks his daughter is  
tormented by memories of what happened, and that her mercury poisoning caused visions and  
hallucinations that brought her to madness. He believes the solution to all of this is to find the way  
to make it stop.”

“And he’s wrong?” John asked, looking up at him.

Gently resting the bow on the strings perfectly perpendicularly, Sherlock let it slide downward,  
producing one long, deep note to interrupt their conversation. He waited for a moment before  
speaking. “I believe the situation will become less confusing as soon as we discover if Claudie’s  
nightmares are real.”

“And how…do you plan on doing that?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

Sherlock said nothing more. He seemed deep in thought, but his blue-green eyes were shining with  
excitement, and his lips curled up into a light smile. He touched the bow to the strings a second  
time, and a slow song, made up with deep notes and discordant sounds, delicately flowed out of the  
instrument. John wouldn’t get another word out of him for the rest of the day.

The detective stood in front of the window, playing for hours and apparently without much effort.  
John sat in his armchair near the fireplace, listening. He didn’t say a word, not wanting to interrupt  
Sherlock. There were no need for words, anyway; the violin’s music reminded John of Sherlock’s  
presence, reverberating deep inside his chest so that he could inwardly rejoice at the privilege of  
having the detective back. The sky grew darker, but all the exhaustion, problems, and fears seemed  
to slip away, chased out by the music that revealed Sherlock’s unspoken words.

John could feel Sherlock’s excitement at the beginning of the case through the music— the  
impatience, the exaltation as he put the pieces back together—and the tempo changed quickly,  
strongly. It slowed back down again, reflecting a moment to breathe, the calm before the storm, and  
then it changed again—to what?

Something besides simply music poured out from the instrument. It was emotion: desperation, a  
wild joy, an apology. Or was it all just in John’s imagination? He had closed his eyes without  
noticing, as if it would help him hear better, and he let the music wash over him, cradle him,  
whisper to him that everything, even his doubts and fears, was and would be fine. The fight was  
over; there was nothing to be worried about. His heart rate escalated as he felt something—no,  
 _someone_ —sit on the arm of the chair.

The violin started playing lower notes that echoed in his throat. He felt someone’s breath, his  
breath, move closer and closer, just a few inches from his face. John kept his eyes closed, enjoying  
the closeness. Sherlock’s breath tickled the back of his neck as the instrument whispered one last  
note. There was the sound of wood scraped over a table, and then suddenly Sherlock cupped the  
side of John’s face in one hand, the other lacing their fingers together. He leaned forward and kissed  
him.

John kissed back passionately, keeping his eyes shut as he concentrated on the pressure on his hand,  
on their lips looking for each other. Sherlock slipped into his lap, pushing their bodies together, and  
he put his arms around the back of the doctor’s head. The detective shivered with excitement before  
sliding his hands underneath John’s rough sweater, feeling the warmth of John’s skin against his  
cold fingers as he traced the outline of his chest. John kissed him over and over, burning with  
desire, satisfied only with Sherlock’s touch. He pulled away for a moment, surprised at first, and  
broke the kiss. Sherlock moaned softly.

Outside, it had started to rain, and the droplets beat furiously against the glass. Their refrain seemed  
to follow the two men, together on the armchair, next to the crackling fire and heedless of the cold.


End file.
